


Warrior's Hands

by Ingridarcher



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-13
Updated: 2014-01-13
Packaged: 2018-01-08 13:21:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1133137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ingridarcher/pseuds/Ingridarcher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>New to his place at the head of the Horde, Garrosh Hellscream gains perspective by looking back at his former life in Nagrand. This story received an honorable mention in Blizzard's 2011 Global Writing Contest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Warrior's Hands

Lions stalked the Greatmother’s dreams. Their wet coats glistened like steel when they moved as cold rain drizzled from a slate sky. She sat cross-legged a few yards from them and their kill, watching silently as they tore off tough, stringy pieces of meat. The talbuk they’d killed was lean, but it would serve. _Food is scarce here_ , she knew somehow, _and this will feed them all._

Something approached her flank, and she swiveled her head to see a ragged, brown wolf. His feet and stomach were caked with mud, shaggy fur hanging off his emaciated frame. He growled low at the feasting lions. The male, a barrel-chested beast with green mirrors for eyes and a dreadlocked mane wreathing his face, looked up from the corpse and growled back. That made the rest look up too, and soon the wolf had the whole pride’s attention.

He bared his jagged teeth and stalked forward. Geyeh reached a gentle, wizened hand to his haunch and he paused, looking back at her. His ears had pricked towards her, listening. She spoke to him in a pleading voice.

“Don’t. You stand no chance against them all.” The wolf’s eyes, deep-set and yellow, glittered with stubborn determination.

 _Food is scarce_ , he whispered in her mind, _You know this_.

“You can find another kill. If you attack them you will surely die.”

 _I would rather die fighting than starving_ , he said and turned from her. The lion roared a warning that made Geyeh shiver.

“They may leave scraps,” she begged the wolf, “Wait until they are done.”

 _I do not eat scraps_ , the wolf snarled, then he leapt at the nearest lioness.

He lasted longer than she’d have guessed, taking two with him as well as a healthy chunk from the male’s shoulder. The wolf would die with meat in his mouth; that made her smile. The male had a strong purchase on the wolf’s scruff, and one of the lionesses clamped her jaws down on his back leg and tugged hard. The Greatmother winced as she heard muscle tearing and bones dislocating, and then her heart jumped when the wolf let out a gut-wrenching, otherworldly scream of pain.

Geyeh woke with start, clutching the damp furs around her. She gulped down a few hasty breaths, then almost retched. _It smells like a tanner’s in here_ , she thought with disgust. Water had, yet again, seeped under the tent’s stakes, turning the dirt floor to mud and her furs wet and rancid. _I can’t wait until we finish building the clay huts_ , she thought to herself, rubbing the bridge of her nose to alleviate the splitting pain in her head. That bloodcurdling wail was knifing straight through her temple. She started when she realized it was not the shadow of the dream, but actually sounding outside.

_I am awake, and still it howls. How can that be?_

Over its din she could barely hear the sound, like fat crackling in a pan, of pouring rain hitting her tent. Thunder rolled - close by -  and the rumbling was not unlike the roar of the lion in her dream. She shuddered and tossed the wet furs from her.

Geyeh pulled herself to her feet, legs unsure and burning with pinpricks, and pushed her way through the flaps of her tent. The rain was coming down in sheets, soaking her linen nightgown, and mud squelched between her toes. She immediately covered her ears; it had been painfully loud inside, yet now she saw that the leather of the tent had still muffled the creature’s wailing. She almost fell back to her knees from the shocking agony inside her skull.

_It sounds like...crying._

She spotted other members of her village approaching to investigate the terrible shrieking, hands pressed to their ears and steps slowing as they got closer. They called to her; she could barely hear them.

“Greatmother, …. get away from....”

“There....shut it up....”

“...it! Kill....”

“....your spear, ...silence it!”

“No!” Geyeh howled in a ragged, cracking voice, holding her hand up as one of the young warriors marched forward, spear in hand. He stopped, and she followed his gaze to a tiny pile of soaked cloth huddled in the mud, hardly noticeable through the dark and rain. As she moved closer, she realized it was indeed the source of the noise.

She could feel in her chest rather than hear the others calling her back, but she did not stop; each step brought sharper agony, and finally she crumpled to her knees before the shrieking thing. Still her arms went out and she touched wet wool; the rough texture felt good against the calloused pads of her fingers. As she pulled the wailing creature towards her she felt a warm trickle of blood down her jawline. She couldn’t say she had consciously realized what the little thing was when she took it in her arms, but a deep and natural part of her knew, and she found that she was stroking its back and hushing through her teeth. Miraculously, the terrible sound wavered, then faded into nothing more than a bit of sniffing and a clanging in her head.

Geyeh sighed with such a relief as she had hardly felt before. Curious, she leaned back to look upon its face. It was round and red, wet with rain and tears. A boy, no more than 6. Sores, swollen with pus and crusted with blood marked him as afflicted with the red pox. He whimpered, looking at the ground.

The others approached cautiously. Another elder fretted over her, yelling to hear himself over the rain and the ringing in his ears. It still sounded muffled to her, like a voice in a dream.

“Greatmother! Are you all right? Your ears are bleeding...” he told her. She did not answer, only inclined her head to try and match the young boy’s gaze. At last he looked up at her with a pair of deep-set, yellow eyes. A shiver shot up her spine.

“What is it?” the elder asked before looking over her shoulder, “A demon?”

“No,” she said, “A Hellscream.”

 

***

 

"I won't say it again. I'm going to Draenor, today."

"I understand your sentiments, but-"

"Obviously you don't."

"You gained your name in the Northrend war...the veterans will expect you to be present."

"I was born with my name and I don't care what anyone expects of me. I’m the warchief; I go where I please."

"You can mourn Dranosh Saurfang here-"

"I will mourn him at his grave and nowhere else! Blood elf, make a portal to Shattrath."

The mage nodded grudgingly as Garrosh Hellscream pushed past the pair of advisers, wrinkling his nose as the stink of ozone started to overwhelm the hold’s thick, warm scent of leather and burning tallow. He'd always hated how magic smelled; on his first visit to Silvermoon he'd felt ready to retch by the end of the day.

“At least decide what to do with that pair of human reconnoiterers we found at the Dranosh’ar Barricade...” Kag’ok Airwhisper demanded softly.

“We should return their heads to Honor’s Stand,” replied Marka Spinetaker, “And leave the rest for the crows.” Kag’ok’s lip curled over razor teeth.

“You did always put the finest of points on things, Marka,” Kag’ok responded, “Slaughter two defenseless prisoners in a cell - a kill worth telling your grandchildren about.” Marka glowered at him, but said nothing. The middle-aged shaman continued.

“Wisdom is best employed here, Warchief. We should keep the prisoners for trade, should any Horde warriors be captured themselves.”

That left a bad taste in Garrosh’s mouth, but no more than murdering hostages. Things had been so much easier in Northrend, when all he had to do was win battles. _Thrall told me to listen to my advisers and act with authority..._ Yet neither Kag’ok nor Marka were giving him satisfactory council. There had to be a better solution...but what?

 _What would my father do?_ he asked himself for the hundredth time, and for the hundredth time got no answer. _This isn’t helping...say something before they think you a dumb fool._

“No true Horde warrior would surrender as those craven humans did. Nor does a warchief trade and treat with his enemies. He _crushes_ them.” Garrosh realized his voice had risen when a few of the blood elves in the hall looked up from their scrolls. He glowered at them to cover his embarrassment. Marka didn’t seem to notice, too busy thumbing the grisly haft of her axe, which was made from (mostly human) vertebrae.

“Sounds like I win, old man. I’ll collect their heads myself...”

“If anyone collects their heads it’ll be me,” hissed Hellscream, “But not until I return from Nagrand.”

“But Warchief-”

“But nothing. They’re locked in a cell; they’ll wait, and so will you.” Garrosh made for the portal, not wanting to be dogged into making a decision. _Yes, sit idle just as you did when Jorin Deadeye needed you in Garadar_ , he told himself bitterly, _I haven’t changed at all._

"Will you at least return for the vigil?" Kag’ok asked.

"Perhaps," Garrosh answered dismissively as the image of the Draenei city shimmered into view behind the liquid surface of the portal. He stepped through before either had the chance to protest again.

Portals reminded him of a night in Northrend when he and a few officers had leapt naked into one of the frozen lakes: the shock of freezing water, the gooseprickles, the muddying of his head and sick feeling in his stomach - then from too much grog, now from vertigo. He was used to travelling through them by now, though, and that had been a good night besides - more than half of the officers had been females.

His last footfall in Grommash Hold echoed and distorted into the clack of his boot on polished stone. He was in the once-proud city of Shattrath. Garrosh felt unwelcome here, despite the amity sown when the Azerothians made expeditions through the Dark Portal. The father was gone, so the ghosts had only the son to haunt now.

The double-takes the Draenei gave him didn't help either. With his tattooed jaw and the terrible Gorehowl slung on his back, Garrosh was hard to mistake as anyone but the son of Hellscream. It made no matter; the city was mostly empty nowadays, being slowly overtaken by Terrokar’s vines and lichen. Its walls were made of some alien alloy so smoothly wrought it looked artificial; that was appropriately draeneic. The craven sheepmen always seemed too pious, too gentle, too self-sacrificing to Garrosh to be trusted. _Let the Alliance swine have them,_ he thought, _It will serve Varian to have allies as proficient at running away as the Draenei are._

The cuts and dents left on the walls stood out like sore thumbs on that smooth surface; relics from when the orcs had sacked the city not so many years ago. _Alongside demons and ogres,_ he thought with disgust. Garrosh had asked many an old orc about the battle. None failed to point out that his father had been among the most enthusiastic - screaming and grinning, elbow-deep in warm, blue blood.

 _New with Mannaroth’s corruption_ , he thought to himself. It dredged up memories of Varok Saurfang expressing his guilt over the assault. He said the dying children sounded like pigs being slaughtered; Hellscream wasn’t sure if that was tragic or congruous. _When you look back on this battle, father, are you proud or ashamed?_ As always, Garrosh got no answer. Not even shaman could contact the ancestors anymore...what hope did he have?

He realized his gait had slowed and he immediately compensated, marching briskly across the hall, doing his best to ignore the 3-story-tall deity pulsing at its nucleus. The Naaru’s heat still touched his skin, like the sun high in a cloudless sky when you can feel it baking your skin like clay. His pace quickened; Hellscream preferred the real sun, not the sheepmen's faceless gods. He ascended the walkway to find the wind riders.

 

Dranosh Saurfang was buried on a tall hill of sand and loose earth, strenuous to climb - especially with the foot of a clefthoof strung over one's shoulder. Garrosh was starting to wish he'd killed a Talbuk to honor his fallen friend, or at least hadn't sought such an enormous bull. His chest heaved and his boots were half-full of dust by the time he made it to the apex, turning to look out over his homeland.

Nagrand rolled beneath him, Elekk grass rippling like waves of water against a strong, cool wind that dried the sweat on his skin. The veldt's drifting, disconnected islands of earth cast broad, dark shadows, making a patchwork of the green and yellow sea. Peaceful, quiet...it made Hellscream yearn for the constant bustle of Orgrimmar again. A breeze blew the strong smell of incense towards him. _Someone has already been here,_ he thought.

The marker was humble; just a tall, rough stone carved with runes. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected; this was the tradition with gravestones, and the Mag’har were nothing if not traditional. Still, for all he felt about Dranosh’s life and death, it seemed meager. _When I die, great and glorious in battle, will my own marker be so spartan?_ He wondered, too, whether they would bury him on Draenor or Azeroth. He could make it known which he'd prefer, only...he wasn't sure himself.

Hellscream was, after all, revered as a hero on Azeroth, and though he’d grown up in Garadar, Garrosh had never felt like he’d had a place there - being the son of Grom didn’t earn you many friends among The Uncorrupted. He’d bruised his knuckles on half the village by the time he came of age, and only Dranosh and Geyeh seemed to think of him as anything but a brute with a chieftain’s name. He was a favorite of the Greatmother’s and growing up sought her guidance in almost everything. No important decision(should he train with one axe or two, could he win a fight against Gorvok Felslayer, how could he make Aggra hate him less) was made without first gaining Geyeh’s approval.

When she grew ill, their conversations got shorter and shorter, and without her guidance Garrosh was lost. The Mag’har numbered in mere hundreds, beset on all sides by demons, ogres, and corrupt spirits. Instead of a punching match against another orc, Garrosh had to gauge whether Garadar’s few warriors could win back Sunspring Post. Before, losing meant a few bruises; now it could spell extinction. It all felt like a house of cards, and if he made a single move everything Geyeh had built would fall down around him. Grom had brought the orcs to ruin when they were a mighty force of clans - how could he hope to save the few hundred Mag’har that were left?

He told Geyeh all of this the night Jorin Deadeye had arrived in Garadar with the battered Bleeding Hollow refugees. She’d been especially bad the past few days, unable to even sit up or eat on her own, and everyone was nursing the idea that soon the Greatmother would leave them for good. He’d tried to remain stoic in front of the village, but beneath his scowl he was terrified. He’d come to her for what he feared was the last time, sure she had one final piece of wisdom that would somehow make everything clear. What she’d actually told him, in that quavering voice, had been more like a punch to the gut.

“I see now that...naming you to lead them...was a mistake. The Mag’har...are fragile now, and you...are your father’s son,” she’d told him, digging her brittle nails into his palm, “You have...his hands...a warrior’s hands. They are not meant to hold fragile things.”

It was not what he’d wanted to hear. In a fit of rage and frustration he’d grasped Geyeh by the shoulders and shook her, bellowing that she couldn’t die, that she had to stay here and help him. It had sent the sick old woman into a fit of coughing, and moments later her attendants had come in and bodily pried Hellscream from her.

From that night on he’d stood idle in the center of the village, waiting for Geyeh to die and the Mag’har’s hope of survival to die with her. Even when reports of the green orcs and their shaman warchief began to trickle in, he remained idle, paralyzed by his own dread. It still made him sick with shame to recall.

When he left Garadar for Azeroth, he swore he’d never be that way again. He would be as strong and sure and brave as Thrall said his father had been. He would be... _new._

Garrosh put down the dead beast's hoof, smearing its blood down over one eye before kneeling. More evidence that someone had been here lay before him; the sigil of Dranosh's clan (not the onyx rock on its red field, but undyed leather with the runic symbol of the Mag'har painted in chalk paste) was laid out across the earth. Sticks of incense protruded from the ground, a mix of scents: he could pick out the narcotic aroma of dreamseed and the abrasive smoke of firethorn. But what caught his eye was the pile of hooves; dozens of them surrounded the marker, wreathing a dark, meaty, disembodied heart.

As Dranosh’s brother in arms, Garrosh had slain a beast of burden and brought its foot as offering. This was the tradition, as was it for a mate to bring the wings of a bird, a son or daughter the jaw and tongue of a reptile, and a parent the heart of a predator. Varok Saurfang had been here, likely with some of his men from Warsong Hold. And, from the way the firethorn’s smoke was still burning his eyes, they had been here recently.

Garrosh prayed silently, then loosed the earth of Dranosh's grave and spread it across his offering. “Walk with the ancestors, brother,” he finished, watching the dry soil soaking into the bloody flesh of the severed foot.

The wind carried the approaching sound of ragged breathing. Hellscream stood, hefting Gorehowl onto his shoulder as the face of Jorin Deadeye appeared on the hill. His eye blinked against the sun, an Elekk's foot slung over his hunched shoulders.

Jorin was as scrawny as Garrosh remembered. The Bleeding Hollow chieftain was naked to the waist, all wiry muscle and tattoos with ancient meanings Hellscream couldn’t hope to understand. His braided beard swung wildly with his exaggerated steps and his whole face glistened with sweat. Deadeye kept reaching up to wipe it off or rub his leather eyepatch. When he caught sight of Garrosh he started, then a glint of recognition flashed in his eye.

"Garrosh! I didn't...expect you to come,” he managed between heavy breaths, “Thought you’d be...too busy...staring into fires...beyond the portal now..." A jape seasoned with bitterness. Most everything Jorin said was spiced thus.

"I'm surprised you even knew it was today," Hellscream returned, "What reason would you have to remember the anniversary of the Wrathgate?"

Deadeye stopped a few feet shy of the warchief, leaning on a knee and swallowing in between hard breaths. "Geyeh...told me. Otherwise, I wouldn’t...have known." The orc took a single deep breath then spat into the dirt. "I should have known it was you from that bull down there. You’re the only one with an ego big enough to take that thing on by yourself.” Garrosh grunted.

“I killed it, didn’t I?”

“I see the green orcs haven’t done much to deflate that ego either.” Deadeye snorted, brushing past Hellscream to make his offering. Uncertainly, Garrosh waited for him.

It wasn’t a long wait. Jorin muttered a prayer and was back on his feet almost as soon as he’d knelt. Blood was smeared across his eyepatch and down to his cheek. Deadeye studied the new warchief askance. Garrosh returned the gaze with a scowl.

“I'd heard your attitude was much improved since you traveled to Azeroth,” Jorin said skeptically as he dusted his hands off, “You look as sullen as ever to me.” Garrosh snorted.

“It’s this place. Just being here makes me depressed. Come to Orgrimmar with me, Deadeye - you have to _see_ the place,” he said, voice rising with excitement, “Proud orcs swarm the streets, warriors, families-”

“There are warriors and families here to look at. Come on, let’s head back to Garadar.”

Hellscream hesitated. “Together?” he asked skeptically; such an amiable offer would never have been extended when he lived in Garadar, least of all by Jorin.

“Don’t get choked up about it,” Jorin laughed as he began the much easier trek down the hill, kicking up dust and grass, “I just want to watch you try and drag that bull back by yourself. Come.”

 

Garadar looked smaller than Hellscream remembered. High atop the cliffs, its egg-shaped, clay huts and huge, leatherbound fans were partly obscured by Nagrand’s twisted trees. Once the village had been his whole world, but compared to the gates of Orgrimmar or Icecrown, it looked quiet and meager. A few feet away Jorin knelt at a pool, lifting the cool water to his sweat-drenched face. He’d demanded that they stop and rest a second time before dragging their respective kills the rest of the way. While he’d never admit it, Hellscream was grateful for the breaks; he’d stubbornly kept dragging the bull along even when his muscles had felt like they were on fire.

Jorin stalked back to the clefthoof’s body, and Garrosh caught a glimpse of his fleshy eye socket before the chieftain wiped sand off his patch and put it back on. Hellscream was sitting on the ground, leaning against the massive corpse, and Deadeye eased down next to him, still breathing deeply.

“So the son of Hellscream rises from new recruit to warchief in a few short years,” Jorin sighed. There was something in his tone that Hellscream misliked. He shot a warning glare at the Bleeding Hollow chieftain; Deadeye didn’t even turn to look at him.

“Things are different on Azeroth,” Garrosh snorted defensively. Jorin barked a laugh.

“You mean besides its vast lands thick with healthy water and soil?” Jorin kicked up a cloud of dust. Garrosh furrowed his brow. The demon presence on Draenor had twisted and drained the world almost completely; even Nagrand, considered the least touched by the curse, was not completely unaffected. “Or was it the lack of demons and ogres clawing at your gates that gave it away?”

“I mean that I’m not despised by every soldier under my command,” Garrosh snarled, grinding his teeth and digging his claws into the loose earth beside him. Deadeye’s sarcasm was wearing on his already thin patience.

“Why’s that?,” Jorin laughed, “Because you can’t lead the Horde from behind Geyeh’s skirts like you lead Garadar? I’m amazed you get anything done now without that shaman peacechief around to tell you what to do.”

Jorin’s nose made a satisfying crack against Garrosh’s knuckles, and the slender chieftain fell onto his side. Hellscream was on his feet, looking down, and the scent of blood filled his flaring nostrils. Jorin cleaned his lip with his thumb and sneered.

“Resorting to fists at the first slight,” Deadeye mocked from the ground, his voice taking on a nasally tone, “Some things never change.” Garrosh’s hands took him by the collar and lifted Jorin’s bloody face to his.

“You expect me to sit by and listen to you insult me and the warchief?” Garrosh roared. Jorin’s eye narrowed and he almost smiled.

“Funny,” he hissed with contempt, “I thought _you_ were the warchief.” Deadeye’s face split into a grin when he saw Garrosh plainly realize the mistake. Hellscream would have hit him again out of sheer embarrassment if not for the way Jorin’s expression changed.

“What the hell is that?" Jorin asked, squinting over Hellscream’s shoulder. Garrosh turned and looked to the horizon. It was hard to see anything against the sun, but at last he noticed the cloud of dust surrounding a mass of fat, pale flesh that was marching across Nagrand’s fields.

“Ogres...” Jorin spat. He looked closer, then his voice took on a note of fear and astonishment, “Hundreds of them...they’re headed straight for-”

“-Garadar.” Garrosh finished in a whisper, and the edge of his mouth twitched into the beginnings of grin. He dropped the fellow Mag’har and the two tore up the hill towards the village, leaving the corpses where they lay.

 

“200 at least...maybe more,” Jorin huffed. Geyeh’s brow furrowed.

“And you’re sure they’re coming here?” she asked.

“Positive,” Garrosh told her with authority, “It’s a war formation. Their march is steady...we have an hour, at best.”

Geyeh was silent for a long moment, her withered hands grasping to themselves tightly. Finally she looked up. “Orlok. Collect the elders and the children and take them out first. Head for the troll’s village in Zangramarsh. Jorin, I want you to strip Garadar of weapons and supplies and distribute them. Give the strongest warriors the wolves. They’ll leave last and cover the rest of the column.”

Garrosh stood immediately, voice rising. “You’re running?” he snarled. Geyeh looked up at him evenly and said nothing. She looked so old...had she always looked so old? “If you think Zabra’jin is going to accept all of Garadar under their roofs you don’t know much about trolls,” Garrosh snarled, “Move the children if you must, but those that can fight are staying here.”

“Even if every orc living in Garadar were of fighting age, we wouldn’t have enough to take on an army of 200 ogres. If we make a stand here, all who remain will die-”

“-with _honor_ ,” Garrosh roared, heat rising in his face. “Instead of being run down like _dogs_.”

“The ogres may be satisfied to have the village. We can take sanctuary, send out for reinforcements and take Garadar back.” Even as she said it, Garrosh could see in her eyes she knew it wasn’t true. Ogres didn’t make war for land - they did it for blood.

“You built this village,” Hellscream growled, “How can you sacrifice it so easily?”

“Garadar isn’t a strip of land and a few structures, Garrosh. It’s these people here,” Geyeh told him, gesturing sharply around the room, “I’ll sacrifice whatever it takes to keep them safe, including my _pride_.”

Hellscream slammed a fist against the hut’s support beam, and dust crackled down from the ceiling. “I won’t have it! We stand here, that’s an _order_.” Something that wasn’t quite fear flickered behind Geyeh’s eyes. Her attendant, Orlok Waterheart, pushed forward.

“You would sentence us to death, _Warchief_?” He made the word a curse.

“Are you Mag’har _orcs_ or squealing _swine_?” Garrosh returned with a roar, “If you want peace, then you can find it in the afterlife, but at least die an orcish death - with steel in your hands instead of in your backs.”

A soft whisper came from behind him. “I do not eat scraps,” it said, and Garrosh nearly jumped when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to find that Geyeh had stood, and was studying him now with a queer expression. He met her eyes, and she gazed at him mournfully before looking on to address the others. “The warchief is right. We need warriors to hold the ogres here while I take the elders and the children to Zabra’jin. Jorin, do as I told you, but assemble them at the gate to the southeast instead. Orlok, once we’re moving, join the others. Go now, there isn’t much time.”

The Mag’har quickly cleared out from the clay structure, rushing to strip their homes of weapons and belongings. Among the tumult, Garrosh saw Orlok kneel before a girl no more than eight. She was holding a spear in her hand.

“You’re too young for that, little one. You must go with the Greatmother,” he told her.

“I don’t want to leave and have to live with stinky trolls!” she protested hotly, “I wanna stay here. I wanna fight with you and Mama!”

Garrosh watched the two argue a few moments longer; the little girl’s enthusiasm made him smile.

“They’ll all die, and you with them,” Geyeh said from behind him, a noticeable hitch in her voice, “Those of us that make it to Zabra’jin will be all that’s left.”

Hellscream tightened his fist around the haft of his axe. The friction of the leather felt good against his calloused palm. He turned and gave her a hard look. “Then the elders can tell them the tale of the mighty who fell this day to save them,” he said, “They won’t be children forever.”

Geyeh studied him again with the same curious expression as before, and managed a small, grim smile. “No,” she told him, wrinkles forming at the edge of her wet eyes, “They won’t.”

 

Glistening fat and entrails spilled from the ogre’s belly in a vomit of blood, and in his haze the huge creature tried clumsily to pull them back in before leaning oblique and falling to the ground, making it shake. Garrosh hurdled over the corpse, screaming as he made for the next lumbering simpleton. Yes, _this_ made sense...

Garrosh had split his small force in two; the ones proficient with bows or magic remained on the cliffside behind cover. Meanwhile, he and the ground troops concealed themselves among the cliffs below. “When they engage the archers, we charge and clench them against the cliff wall,” he’d told them. Garrosh himself had misgivings about the tactic, but with so few at his disposal there was little else he could do.

It had worked well at first. The pink behemoths had fallen one after another to the rear ambush, and for a brief moment in the confusion Hellscream thought they might scatter to be picked off one by one. He was not so lucky. One beast of an ogre had clawed his way up the cliffs and began wreaking havoc against the ranged units. Once spells and arrows stopped raining from above, the ogres had managed to reassemble against Garrosh and his warriors. The battle had once again tipped against them.

A shriek lanced through the air and he turned to see Jorin Deadeye clipped by a heavy rock club and knocked below his line of vision. Garrosh roared, too battle-hazed for words, and cut his way towards the fallen orc. Thick pink bodies swelled into every gap he cut open with his axe. He caught a glimpse of Jorin on the ground, and his head swelled. He swept his blade in a wide lateral arc and sliced clean through one ogre and half through another, shouldering past them stepping over a field of brown and pink bodies. _Don’t think about it,_ he told himself, keeping his eyes forward and senses focused, _They have their peace now._

But there were too many; already more on the ground than on their feet. They were losing, just as Geyeh told him they would, and by the end they’d all lie slaughtered. _I never decided where I’d be buried,_ he thought, cutting through body after heavy body, severing limbs and ducking past newly-made corpses as they fell. It would go down in the songs that the son of Hellscream fell to an army of less than 300 ogres. It was so much less glorious than it had seemed when he’d made the order. So much less glorious than falling at the Lich King’s feet in a mad bid to end the war in one stroke. A hard and sudden memory burned its way into his skull.

 

_The high overlord carried his boy’s corrupted body down into the berthing of Orgrim’s Hammer. Hellscream put a hand on his shoulder, and tried clumsily to comfort him._

_“He died a hero’s death, as my father did,” he said. Varok looked up at him with disgust in his glittering eyes._

_“I don’t give a_ damn _about your father,” Saurfang snapped, “He was a brash, arrogant, remorseless_ butcher, _and you’re just the same. The only thing Grom Hellscream did for the Horde was_ die _.”_

 _Their men had to hold them back from tearing each other apart then. They pulled Saurfang into his cabin as he howled “It should have been_ you _! Not my son, **it should have been you**!”_

 

Hellscream screwed his eyes shut. Was Saurfang right? Ever since the war ended Garrosh had felt out of place. Not even the cataclysm had shaken him into the certainty he’d felt on those icy fields. And now he’d done what he’d always feared; lead the Mag’har to destruction. _Thrall would have saved them. He and Geyeh and Dranosh and old Saurfang...they know how to build things, to_ protect _them. All I know how to do is fight. At least in death I will not have to face the Greatmother for what I have done._

No indeed. Instead he would face his father, and Garrosh could finally ask Grom all the questions he’d always wanted to.

_But what would it even matter then? I’ll know peace in the afterlife. No questions will plague me._

That was unsettling. Garrosh had been fighting all his life; the thought of an existence without struggle had seemed sweet. Yet now, as it was fast approaching, it sounded so...empty.

Far off, above the song of steel and the crunch of bone, the long howl of a peculiar warhorn sounded. He was suddenly flooded with nostalgia; of being spattered with freezing, black blood; of snow in his boots; of mornings putting on ice-cold plate.

_But how could that...?_

His head inclined and he saw a lone mounted figure on a high hill, a large horn clutched in his fist. Then, like a wave, dozens more crested up beside him. They stood there for what seemed like hours, staring down at the battle below. So confused and astonished was he that Garrosh missed the heavy cudgel swinging towards his chest. It connected and he went down like a sack, barely rolling to the side to avoid a second blow towards his head. As he tried to stand he realized the wind had been knocked out of him - he sucked in a deep breath, but his lungs refused to push it out again. He stumbled to his feet, holding Gorehowl up unsteadily while croaking in short breaths that wouldn’t release. The ogre grinned dopily at him; Garrosh blocked the next hit with the haft of his axe, but it knocked him again onto his back.

He managed the stop the next blow with the heel of his boot, the force shuddering through his leg. He thought he heard a crack, but he wasn’t sure. His lungs burned. In a final bid of defiance, he stretched his tattooed jaw open wide as a snake’s and _screamed._

Air rushed out of his lungs, vibrating shrill in his throat and ringing through the vale. He sucked in another deep breath and stood in one fluid motion. The ogre was doubled over, covering his ears when Gorehowl took off his stubby legs. Garrosh screamed again to let the air out, then spun and cut across the chest of another ogre. The brute had the audacity to stay standing. Hellscream took in another deep breath as the huge, lumbering creature lifted its mace. Garrosh leaned forward and shrieked once more. The mace dropped mid-swing, and the ogre fell to his knees in agony, blood seeping out his ears and eye sockets.

There was a sudden lull in attacks, and he realized the battle had been somehow thrown into confusion. He heard war cries all around him, and saw a massive tauren, donned head-to-toe in plate, move past him and knock down an ogre mage mid-cast. More came, lanky trolls and lithe blood elves; warriors with broad backs and thick arms, their green faces barely visible beneath helms decorated with horns and skulls. At last Garrosh noticed their commander, mounted atop a wolf, roaring orders and formations at them with practiced ferocity. Garrosh knew the voice so well he almost followed the orders himself. A hot rush of mad hope filled him.

_Saurfang._

Garrosh realized then that air was rushing in and out of his lungs in deep breaths, and his lips spread over his pointed yellow teeth in a wide, manic smile.

“Hellscream!” roared a jovial, familiar voice over the clangor of battle, “Or should I say ‘Warchief’? What the hell are you doing here?” First Sergeant Jek ‘the Neck’ Broadback fell in at Garrosh’s flank as if the war in Northrend had never ended. Hellscream, watching the battle turn to their favor with near giddiness, cackled as he split an ogre from crotch to crown.

“Same as you, if that pile of feet at Dranosh’s grave was any indication.” That made Jek guffaw loudly; the massive orc had always been easy to laugh. “I thought you’d be halfway back to Warsong Hold by now.”

A boulder richocheted off Jek’s shield, leaving a broad dent. He shook off the impact before answering.

“The magi were about to pop a port when we heard that shriek a’ yours ‘bout a mile off. F’not for that we’d have been long gone.”

The ogre’s forces were scattering now; the shock of a third assault and the militaristic precision exampled by High Overlord Saurfang’s men had broken their formation and sent them to the winds. Garrosh chased a pack of them for nigh 300 feet before letting them run, all the while roaring, screaming, and beating his chest in pure, glorious victory. His brothers joined in, but none were as enthusiastic.

“That’s right, you fat cowards, run! Run from the might of the Horde!” Jek strode up beside him and patted him hard on the shoulder, followed by a few officers. He recognized one from the night that reminded him of portals, and he would have grinned wider if he was able. She punched him in the arm, then cackled gleefully. The lot of them turned, and Garrosh’s joy wavered.

Bodies carpeted the earth, crushing the grass and turning the watering hole red. _They are with the ancestors now,_ he reminded himself, _they died honorably, and will find peace._ It was then he remembered Jorin Deadeye. Garrosh split from his old friends, racing to the spot where he’d seen him fall. He found the chieftain battered but alive, a pair of young shaman girls attending to his healing.

“Hellscream,” Deadeye wheezed with more breath than voice, “I sure hope your Horde showing up halfway through the battle to save our asses was part of your plan.” Garrosh sighed deep with relief, though the wounds were not minor; Jorin's chest was nigh caved in and his right arm was so battered it looked to be filled with jelly.

“You all right?” Hellscream asked him quietly. Jorin indicated the two orcesses, both of whom had their hands on his bare chest, then flashed the warchief a grin.

“I’ll survive,” he said. His grin faded. “Orlok...defended me. To his last. Without him I’d be dead.”

Tentatively, Garrosh followed Deadeye’s gaze. Just a few feet away, Orlok Waterheart’s body laid, stone-tipped lances protruding from his back. Hellscream thought of the shaman’s daughter, the one who’d wanted to fight. _She will live on to avenge him,_ he told himself.

He heard a wolf’s gait padding up behind him, and when Garrosh turned he saw none other than Varok Saurfang, high overlord of the Horde’s remaining forces in Northrend. He removed his helm, snow white braids tumbling to his sides.

Looking up at Saurfang mounted on his wolf, Garrosh felt like boy. Then again, the old orc usually had that effect on him. The pair stared at each other, waiting to see who would speak first. Both knew that if Saurfang and his men hadn’t shown up when they did, Hellscream’s company would have fallen and Garadar would be a pile of ashes and rubble. The gratitude Garrosh felt wasn’t something he cared to express.

“What are you doing in Nagrand, Hellscream?” Saurfang asked brusquely.

“It’s _Warchief_ Hellscream now,” he answered.

“I only have one warchief, Garrosh,” the high overlord said, “Answer the question.”

Hellscream bristled at Saurfang’s naked disrespect, particularly before so many eyes. “I was _here_ to honor your _son_ ,” he growled hotly, then brushed past the old orc to survey the remaining damage.

“Garrosh,” Saurfang called from behind him. Hellscream stopped, ground his teeth, and turned to face him. His hands balled into fists, sure that the two of them would come to blows for whatever Saurfang was about to say. There was a pause as the pair studied one another, and at last Varok sighed, and spoke.

“After my boy died,” the old orc began, “Every battle left me feeling hollow. I fought because I had to, for the Horde, but when I put my only child in the ground I thought all I wanted was to count the rest of my days until I met him in the afterlife. But standing in defense of fellow orcs today, against an old enemy, I felt a fire that I haven’t known in...many years. Perhaps the time has come to stop living in the past. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but...thank you, Garrosh.”

Hellscream stood tight-jawed and wide-eyed, not sure if he could believe it either. “You honor me, High Overlord,” he managed after a few seconds of dumbfounded silence. Saurfang gave him a cursory nod, and when he turned to leave Hellscream couldn’t help but ask him one last thing.

“Does this mean you’ll come back to Durotar?” he blurted, more desperately than he’d meant to sound. Saurfang thought about that for a moment.

“Perhaps,” he answered, “In time.”

 

When Hellscream emerged from the portal, Kag’ok and Marka were waiting for him. He marched past them with sure steps, commanding no one in particular to bring him a candle and a match. A tall, shaggy druid lumbered off to retrieve them.

“Warchief-”

“I know what do with those humans,” he told them, “We’re going to release them.”

“What?” Marka roared. Kag’ok seemed hardly more pleased.

“Warchief,” he began gently, “While I commend your compassion-”

“I have no _compassion_ for the Alliance,” he spat as the druid returned and pressed a candle and wooden match into his hands, “Those two are going to get back home unharmed because in two days when we march on Honor’s Stand, I want those pigs to be _ready_.”

That seemed to shock the both of them even more. “Warchief, our forces are too thinly spread already. Two days is not enough time-”

“I won’t hear your excuses,” Hellscream barked at Marka, “If you can’t do it I’ll find an orc who can. Get soldiers who were stationed in the area. They’ll know the land, and have a thirst for revenge. Now move - I have to get to the vigil.”

Hellscream pushed past them, hearing Marka’s heavy boots storming away behind him. He was nearly to the stairs when Kag’ok called for him to stop.

“What?” he growled.

“This is folly, Warchief. Thrall would never-”

“I’m _not_ Thrall,” he snarled.

“Obviously,” he hissed, “Since you have no regard for the peace he spent his life sowing.” Garrosh inclined his head to look at his hand; he balled it into a fist.

“Peace is a fragile thing,” he answered, then turned to climb the stairs. They creaked beneath his weight. He struck the match on the wall and lit the candle. The smoke stung his eyes, but smelled good. He pushed back the leather and walked out onto the balcony.

A thousand candles glittered beneath him, starting in the Valley of Strength then branching out to the city’s streets like a bolt of lightning. He knew each one was held by one of the city’s denizens, but high on the platform they seemed as one. _This Horde is the weapon I was meant to wield,_ he thought. He was getting used to the nights in Durotar, warm and dry with as wide and clear a sky as he’d ever seen. Spending the eternal afterlife under that sky, interred in red, dry earth, seemed sweet.

 _But not yet_ , he thought with a grin, _Not yet._

He took in a deep breath, raised his father’s axe and screamed, and not even the din of a thousand cheers rising from the streets could drown out his voice.


End file.
